Page 22 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
This felt too momentous to face alone. Whatever these results revealed, Sam Church deserved to learn the truth at the same time I did. Despite his reluctance and his wife's hostility, this moment belonged to both of us.
I pulled out my phone and typed:The results are here. Can we meet tomorrow to open them together?
His response came back within minutes:Workshop. 2 PM. Come alone.
I slipped the unopened envelope into my purse, where it seemed to pulse with potential energy. By this time tomorrow, everything might be different.
September 25, Thursday
copper contactinteraction with copper stills that removes sulfur compounds and improves flavor
SAM'S WORKSHOPseemed more sterile than I remembered as I approached the open doorway, my footsteps echoing against the floor with a hollow sound that matched the emptiness in my chest. The familiar scents of wood shavings and linseed oil should have been comforting, but today they felt oppressive, weighted with anticipation that made the air itself seem dense and difficult to breathe.
Sam Church stood beside his workbench, his weathered hands fidgeting with a piece of sandpaper he wasn't actually using. His face looked haggard, as if he'd spent the night staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, and his usually steady demeanor had been replaced by a nervous energy that made him pace in small circles around his tools.
Carol sat rigidly in the same folding chair she'd occupied during our first encounter, but today her hostility had been replaced by something more fragile. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, evidence of recent tears, and she clutched a crumpled tissue in one hand.
"Hi," Sam said with a nod. "Let's get this over with."
I swallowed hard and pulled the envelope from my purse, its weight seeming both insignificant and enormous simultaneously.
"Should we...?" I began, then stopped, unsure of the proper protocol for moments like this.
"Just open it," Carol said sharply, her voice carrying the brittle edge of someone who'd reached the end of her emotional reserves.
My fingers trembled as I tore along the perforated edge, the sound unnaturally loud in the workshop's tense silence. The paper inside was crisp and official, filled with technical language about genetic markers and probability percentages that my eyes skimmed past in search of the only words that mattered.
Probability of paternity: 0%
The alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the tested child.
The words seemed to shimmer on the page as their meaning sank in.
"Well?" Sam asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You're not my father," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded when everything inside me felt like it was collapsing.
The transformation in both of them was immediate. Sam's shoulders sagged with visible relief while Carol let out a sob that sounded equal parts joy and release. They moved toward each other with the desperate urgency of people who'd been holding their breath underwater, finally allowed to surface and breathe.
Their embrace was fierce and grateful, Carol's face buried against Sam's shoulder while his arms encircled her with protective tenderness. They whispered words I couldn't hear, probably never wanted me to hear, about relief and gratitude.
Watching their joy at my disappointment brought tears to my eyes that I tried unsuccessfully to blink away. I turned and rushed outside to leave.
"Bernadette, wait," Sam's voice called after me as I reached my van.
I fumbled with the door handle, desperate to escape.
"I'm sorry," he said, approaching cautiously. "I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
I sniffed. "I'm just disappointed to be back to square one."
Sam glanced nervously toward the workshop, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a manila envelope, his movements quick and furtive.
"I went through some old pictures," he said quietly. "Found some of your mother and people we used to hang around with."
He shoved the envelope into my hands before I could respond.
"I wrote names next to anyone I remember," he said. "But please—don't contact me anymore. This has to be the end of it." Sam turned and walked away.
